


Encounters

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: The Autumn Effect [12]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Crime, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 18,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6411001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're the Scarecrow, run-ins with Batman are inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Make a Fool

"M-Mr. Batman? Sir? There's an injured man on the top floor, but the woman with him won't give him up. She said she'll talk to you, but that's it."

Who was this? He hadn't met this guard before. All the same, he believed him. He had to go up there, in case it was really serious.

He could hear sobbing as he went up. So the guard had been telling the truth. What was going on? And where was everyone else?

The sober turned out to be Kitty Richardson. She was cradling Jonathan Crane in her lap. His mask and glasses were lying on the ground beside them. Jesus.

"Batman." Her voice was choked. "Help him. Please. Take him to a hospital or something, please!" She adjusted her fingers on the bloody scarf she was pressing against his side. "Help him!"

She may have been insane, but Batman pitied her. She was scared and desperate.

"Goddammit, do something!"

He knelt beside them, wondering how best to handle this. There had to be a way to pick the man up without making it worse.

Jonathan mumbled something, his voice muffled by the scarf around his throat and mouth.

"Crane?"

"Checkmate."

_Ssssprayyy!_

Fuck.

There was just no other word for the situation.

Even as the walls melted, he could see _them_ getting up and straightening themselves out.

"Good night, Bats. Always a pleasure."

"My tailbone hurts."

"My shirt is ruined. Did you have to use so much soy sauce?"

"The ketchup was too orange without it."

Mother's screams drowned out anything else.

THE END


	2. Understanding

He hadn't been looking for them. He had been looking for the Joker. But there they were, seemingly asleep in front of a flickering TV. This was a golden opportunity.

"Hello, Bat-Man." Maybe not. "Can I help you with something?" He would just stay right here until he was sure Crane was unarmed. "If you give me a minute to wake her up, we can leave. As long as you don't break my glasses again." There was a chiding note in his voice. "You can come in, if you must."

He stepped into the doorway and stayed there. Crane was unarmed, as far as he could tell, but that didn't mean anything. He still remembered the toxin-laced watch.

"Well? There's no reason to knock us out this time. Are we going or not?"

"Do you want to go?"

"When has that mattered?" The TV turned to static and Crane turned it off. "What do you want?"

"The Joker."

"Sorry, I enjoy living."

"He took a girl."

"That's typical."

"He's poisoned her."

"Don't blame me, I've been here all afternoon."

Batman sorely considered shaking the man and thought better of it. He didn't have time to deal with this.

"Tell me where he is."

"Why on earth would I know? His plans change by the minute." The woman in his arms shifted and murmured his name. Batman froze. They hadn't booby-trapped this place, had they? It wasn't unlike them to rig up scythes and pressure pads. "As I said, I enjoy living."

"Crane…"

"There's nothing you can do. Threatening me isn't going to help you, and if you knock me out, I _can't_ tell you anything." Dammit. "If you take me back to Arkham, they'll sedate me and you'll get nothing."

He knew, then. Or at least had an idea. The clock was ticking, he _really_ didn't have time for this!

"You love her."

"Kitty? I'm fond of her, yes."

"What would you do if she was gone?"

That shut him up for several minutes.

"They _might_ be on Avenue X." he said at last. "But that was the plan this morning."

Good enough.

As much as he loathed to do it, he had to give the man something.

"I'll be back." he growled. "Don't go anywhere."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He was back within two hours, but there was no sign anyone had been there.

Well, _almost_ no sign. A small item sat on the floor. A quick check said that it was safe to pick up. It was a prescription bottle with clear liquid in it. A note was taped to the lid, written in Crane's illegible scrawl.

_One (1) dose of Joker Venom Antidote. Best results when taken intravenously. Side effects may include: vomiting, tremors, and hallucinations._

Below, in a heavier, messier scribble was another note.

**_Thank you for choosing Scarecrow Pharmacies. Please scream again._ **

The cheek! The absolute _gall_! How dare he suggest that Batman not have his own antidote! Never mind the fact that his antidote was probably outdated.

 _Fine_. He would give them until tomorrow before starting his search. But he wouldn't have to like it.

THE END


	3. Confrontation

_I should have studied job opportunities more._

**Crack!**

That had been his head. Oww.

He slid to the ground, feeling bricks catch his clothes and aggravate old injuries. Why, oh why did this always happen to him?

It was supposed to be a simple pick-up. No Batman, no police, no nothing. But somebody had tipped off the cops and he had been forced to run during the resulting firefight. Batman had caught up to him a few blocks away.

**_When I get my hands on that little prick…_ **

_Shut up and get us out of this!_

For once he was grateful for Scarecrow's high pain tolerance. Everything still hurt, but he was pretty sure broken ribs were supposed to hurt more than this.

His back met the wall again and he stayed down this time. High pain tolerance or not, this hurt and moving sounded like a bad idea.

**_We're going to run. Just be quiet and let me handle this._ **

_Run? Run how?_

**_I don't know yet, but we're not going back to Arkham. I don't like that shit they put you on._ **

That made two of them. But running sounded _hard_.

Batman approached them, his cape swirling behind him, and knelt down.

"Just give up, Crane."

Scarecrow scowled behind his mask. Why did everyone always mistake him for Jonathan…oh. Right. Oh, the fun of sharing a body.

"How many times do we have to go over this?" he complained. Jonathan said something about behaving. Wuss. "Scarecrow. My name is Scarecrow. How would you like it if I called you by some other guy's name? I'm not Jonathan any more than you're Bruce Wayne! God!"

That earned him a hand around the neck and a rough shake.

_Congratulations, you've irritated him further._

**_Sorry. Pet peeve._ **

He was dropped again. Ow. It was now or never. Batman probably wasn't expecting him to run, anyway.

_Get going!_

He rolled away and scrambled to his feet, expecting for God-knew-how-many pounds to slam into him.

_Hurry up!_

**_Would you like to try?_ **

He fled. There was the sound of a fluttering cape behind him, but he ducked down another alley and pressed up against the wall, wheezing. There had to be a way to get back home without being caught.

_Go straight, then make a right. Then a left, then another left…_

THE END


	4. Hostage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only worked once. But it was a good once. Takes place directly after Batman Begins.  
> In case it wasn't obvious, a lot of these are old, so be nice. Or don't, it matters not to me. And yeah, Batman hates me. I think he frowns upon my letting Dr. Crane murder civilians.

She slams into him like a freight train, toppling them both against a cold cement wall. He knows this one. It's the nurse Crane took with him two months ago. Sick bastard.

She's sobbing, clinging to his cape like a security blanket. He'll find Crane later. Right now he has to get her out of here.

"Come on." he rasps. "You're okay, you're okay."

"Batman?"

"Yes."

"He was going to kill me." she whispers. "He's kept me in here for ages and there's been needles…"

Sick, twisted bastard. It's amazing this woman had the sanity she does. He remembers his own experience with the toxin, and it was not pleasant. They're leaving right now.

"We're leaving. You're okay."

She's suddenly yanked away from him. Where did Crane come from? He hadn't been there a minute ago!

"She's not going anywhere, Batman."

"Let her go, Crane."

"If I don't?"

Batman steps forward, well aware that he looks particularly menacing in the low lighting. Crane shrugs and he imagines the man smirking behind his mask.

"Fine."

He lets her go. Just drops her arm and stays where he is.

"Step away."

That smirk has turned into a full-on grin, he can just tell. All the same, he backs away, hands held mockingly above his head. The woman doesn't move.

"Come on."

"She won't go with you, Batman." Crane calls.

"Shut up."

"She's been free to leave this whole time."

"Don't move, Crane." he warns. "Ma'm…"

She's looking at him with wide eyes. Wasn't she crying a second ago?

She grins at him. There's far too many teeth in that grin. Then she steps back-straight into Jonathan Crane's arms.

"Before you ask, it's not Stockholm."

Well. If Crane can get a date, anybody can.

"You'll both have to come in, then."

"I don't think so." Crane says softly. "Good night, Batman."

Then he feels it-the beginnings of a drug working its way through his veins. How could he have been drugged?

"I don't think the perfume worked quick enough to be effective. Too diluted."

"Clearly. I'd love to stay and watch the fun, but I left the other one in her cell and I need to check on her."

"I'll put the kettle on and have the boys get him out of the way."

So. There's two of them now. He'd worry about that more if he wasn't sinking into the floor.

THE END


	5. Victory

Jonathan Crane falls back on the concrete, grinning through a mouthful of blood. He's got broken ribs, countless bruises and a bloody nose, but he's won all the same. Batman took five minutes too long catching up to him this time. He won't have time to stop anything.

The mask is jerked off his head-he needs a new one, this one smells-and he's suddenly on his feet. Back to Arkham it is, then.

"Give me the antidote, Crane."

"Oh, it's too late." He spits the blood out. Some of it lands on Batman's shoe. That was honestly an accident. "There's nothing you can do."

"The antidote!"

What will happen if he says no? He'll be shaken a bit, maybe knocked out, and he'll go back to his cozy cell at Arkham.

In other words, the same thing that will happen if he says yes.

"No."

Sure enough, he's shaken a little bit, yelled at, and finally thrown against the wall when he won't stop laughing.

He wakes up in the infirmary at Arkham, handcuffed to the bed as always. Hopefully Kitty taped the news report for when he gets out of here.

THE END


	6. Consultation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering, Chlorpromazine (AKA Thorazine) is an antipsychotic. In this case, it silences Scarecrow.

"I know you're awake, Crane."

"Of course you do."

"Roll over."

"I'm already in Arkham, Batman. What do you want?"

For starters, common courtesy. Eye contact, maybe, would be nice.

Crane made no move to lift his head and Batman sighed. At least he'd gotten a response, which was more than he usually got.

"I need your advice." There, he'd said it.

Crane didn't move, but Batman _knew_ he was smirking into his pillow. As much as he hated coming here, he really didn't have a choice.

"What's in it for me?"

"It's too much to ask for something from the goodness of your heart?" Batman grumbled. Crane's shoulders quaked in silent laughter.

"Goodness? Heart? Batman, you must have gotten a girlfriend. Or developed a liking for romantic drivel."

"Crane…"

"You'll get nothing from me without something in return. And it had better be good." He paused. "Hurry up about it, I _was_ asleep before you threw the door open."

He hadn't _thrown_ the door open! He'd just…opened it vigorously.

"What do you want?"

"My mask, my toxins…"

"Your girlfriend?"

"You are aware, I hope, that Arkham's security is terrible. I want something that I would normally have to expend effort to have."

Dammit.

"No mask. No toxins."

"Then you have nothing."

"Crane…"

"I am not going to help you out of 'the goodness of my heart', Batman. Unless you can come up with something very, very interesting…"

"What medication are you on?"

He still didn't roll over-Batman was beginning to wonder if he was acting childish on purpose-but he did go very still.

"Chlorpromazine." he said quietly. "You might know it as…"

"Thorazine."

"Very good."

"I could get them to give you twenty-four hours without it."

"Dangerous idea."

"Would it get you to help me?"

 _Finally_ he rolled over, fixing those unnerving eyes on Batman.

"What do you want?"

THE END


	7. Found

Jonathan Crane has never been this easy to find. Nor has he ever been this…despondent.

He's sitting in a metal chair by the bed, a cup of something clasped in his hands. His mask is on the table next to him. Batman can see blood on his clothes. He shouldn't be sitting up.

"Crane."

"It'll have to wait."

He doesn't even look up. He doesn't do anything except look from the cup to the bed and back again.

"Crane…"

"It'll have to wait, I said. If you try to drag me out of here, I will gas you. And you don't have the antidote to this one yet." Dammit. Batman supposes he could lunge for him, but he doesn't want to antagonize the man. He's never seen him like this before, and he doesn't want to know what he'll do if provoked. "You can sit down, if you must."

"She'll be fine."

"So they tell me." He doesn't sound convinced.

"What happened?"

"Some idiot tried to double-cross me." A bitter smirk graces his features. "He's learned his lesson."

Batman shudders. How the Scarecrow keeps anyone on is a mystery. Then again, the Joker kills over pimples, so…

"Crane…"

"I can't believe what they say." he says softly. "They don't want to upset me by telling me the truth."

"They told you the truth." He checked on that. The only thing wrong with Kitty Richardson is a (likely) concussion, a couple of broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. The blast threw her hard enough to knock her out, but there isn't anything to worry about. Fortunately. Crane would probably gas the hospital if something happened to her.

"Did they."

"Yes."

"Good." He takes a sip of his drink and slumps forward. "I'm still not moving."

"You shouldn't be sitting up."

"What…oh." He prods his stomach and grimaces. "They said something about minor lacerations."

His voice is slurred and Batman wonders if they drugged that drink. He hopes not, because there will be hell to pay when Crane finds out.

The door opens and a short, balding man wearing glasses and a white coat peeks in.

"Doctor Crane?" Crane looks up. Typical. He'll cooperate with anyone but Batman. Childish. "May I come in?"

"Show me."

The doctor sighs but holds his coat open, turns around, and turns out his pockets. Crane nods and returns to staring at his drink.

"Batman."

"Ignore him." His voice is sharp. "What do you want."

"Doctor Crane, you really need to be looked at yourself. I promise you that she will be fine. Nothing is going to happen to her."

He doesn't say anything for several minutes. Then he turns to Batman.

"Please."

Please? Oh, god, he's in the Twilight Zone!

"Fine."

He finally gets up and follows the doctor out of the room. Batman eases himself into the metal chair and hopes he doesn't crush it by accident.

It's going to be a long night.

THE END


	8. Tied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone with long limbs and a skinny body, I sympathize with the 'fitted clothes' department. If they fit my legs, they're falling off my hips without a belt, which is also hard to find.

It's cold, it's snowing, and that idiot Batman is busy tying them to a telephone pole.

"You made me break a nail." Kitty complains. "A nail. Again! It hurts, you know. Broken nails actually cause a decent amount of pain. Not to mention that I actually had them done, _legally_ , at a salon. You should be ashamed."

The only answer she gets is a grumble. Fine. Asshole. The broken nail wasn't even worth it. Humph.

Behind her, Jonathan is complaining that the ropes are too tight.

"You broke my ribs not long ago, you know. Can you not drive them into my lungs? Thank you."

He doesn't fare much better in the answer department, but that doesn't stop him from trying.

"Be careful, you cretin! I actually like this suit. I had it fitted. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find someone to do that nowadays?"

That earns him an actual snarl. Kitty rolls her eyes and wonders if the Batman has a cold.

"Are you ill?"

Grumble.

"Don't breathe on me, please. I don't fancy pneumonia."

He finishes tying the knots-ow, do they really have to be so tight?-and turns to go. Jonathan sighs and slumps back against the pole.

"Ow."

"It's cold."

"I think I have a concussion."

Great.

"Fantastic."

Her shoes are wet. God, where are the police? If they're at the Dunkin' Donuts, she's going to be really mad.

She leans her head against the pole and feels around for his hand.

"I hate snow."

"Mm."

To the credit of the police, they're only out there for about ten minutes. It isn't until they're driving away that Kitty spots the Batman in the shadows of a nearby café.

That asshole.

THE END


	9. Valentine's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't like Valentine's Day that much. It annoys me. (Then again, I don't care for Twilight, either. Must be connected.) All the same, I had this idea and it made me giggle. Because chocolate is too mainstream for supervillains.

Batman doesn't know which is worse-being attacked by two groups of henchmen or the two booby traps he walks into trying to get away.

The first one is a series of trip wires and those horrid fake cobwebs. The second one, which he stumbles into whilst trying to get said cobwebs out of his gauntlets, is a thick, weighted net. To add insult to injury, the thugs come at him again when the net has settled.

They all scatter soon enough, but it takes him a minute to see why. _Then_ he spots the Scarecrow materializing out of a darkened spot on the roof. Well. This is new. This is not the Scarecrow's MO. Perhaps someone has hired him…or Tetch stuck one of his cards on his head.

"Crane?"

"Ah, our guest of honor…Kitty?"

Oh, no.

"Jonathan?" Her voice is coming from the other direction. "What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Well. This is awkward.

Crane pulls the mask off and puts his glasses on.

"I knew you were planning something." he grumbles. "You're a terrible liar."

"So are you. I take it the men are yours?"

"You did the net, huh?"

They hadn't planned this together? What? He was confused.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

Oh, come on! He is not a Valentine's day present, and especially not for these madpeople. Knife, knife…ah! Knife.

Alfred's going to be upset when he sees all these bruises, but it can't be helped.

"Hey!"

"Where's he…never mind."

"Prat."

Batman drops onto a small balcony, gasping and hoping they don't give chase. He's lucky they didn't gas him.

The last thing he hears before he takes off into the night are the terrible words, "I hear Harley managed to get the Boy Blunder. How long d'you think that'll last?"

THE END


	10. Mistaken Identity

As far as he knew, he'd left her upstairs, nice and drugged after the little accident earlier. She'd come in at the worst possible time (she had a few talents, but timing was not one of them). It figured that she'd open the door _right_ when he dropped that vial. Needless to say, he'd had to physically subdue her to keep her from ripping her own tongue out and, once she was handcuffed to a chair, he'd sedated her. Once that had kicked in, he'd untied her and left her on the couch to recover. Hopefully she'd remember what had been so frightening…burrowing cockroaches, probably. Eh.

**CRASH!**

Oh, no.

_How many times do I have to tell her? 'Sedatives don't wear off instantly. Give yourself a few minutes.' And does she listen? NO!_

He'd been expecting nothing serious-an attempt to get a glass of water, maybe. He had _not_ been expecting to find her trying to stab Batman's face with a plastic fork. She wasn't very successful-he could have knocked her over if he tried-but…but…what the hell was going on?

"DISINTIGRATE, YOU SORRY BASTARD!" She jabbed the handle onto his nose guard. "WHY WON'T YOU DISINTIGRATE?"

What on…oh.

Oh, dear god, he wished the Joker hadn't broken his camera. This…this was beautiful. This was better than toxin! He should go help, he knew that, but they needed flu shots anyway.

She finally broke the fork against his face.

"Crane."

Crap. He'd been spotted.

"I did not do that on purpose."

"But you are responsible."

"Only half. I didn't turn her into a Tolkien nut."

Half was enough, apparently, because he found himself on the floor, hands trussed behind his back and all hidden supplies of toxin taken from him.

Once they were safely in the back of the car, he turned to Kitty and asked softly, "What did you see?"

"Should've disintegrated."

"What are you talking about?"

"Stabbed in the face." she mumbled. "Should've disintegrated."

"Okay."

"Don't need a hobbit."

"Go back to sleep."

"Why didn't it work?"

He shrugged and settled back against the seats, wondering if the flu shot was going to be a painful one this year.

"Jon-a-than."

"What."

"Why didn't it work."

"I guess you didn't stab hard enough."

"But…"

"Maybe next time, Kitty."

She harrumphed and slumped against his side, grumbling about cheating Witch-Kings.

THE END


	11. Hello

**BAM!**

"You know, I'd open if you'd knock."

Of _course_ she had to be alone, lounged on the couch with a drink in her hand and wearing nothing but a raggedy t-shirt and…men's boxer shorts?

Right.

"You're late." she said. "Missed Jonathan by half an hour. Although…" She took a drink and stretched. "Since he won't be back for a while, and I'm here all by myself…"

No.

Batman threw a robe at her. It hit her in the face. Oops.

"Get dressed."

"I _am_ dressed. I'm clothed, aren't I? It's hardly my fault that it's hot in here. Besides, wouldn't you rather have me like this? I can't hide anything up my sleeve this way."

As if that mattered. At one point she'd had a perfume that did the job just as well.

"Get dressed." he growled again. She pouted at him, downed the rest of her drink, and stood up.

"You're no fun at all."

And with that, she flung her hardback at him and vaulted over the back of the sofa. He didn't sprint after her-he made that mistake once before and got himself a faceful of fear toxin from Jonathan Crane.

He made his way around the couch, knowing there were only a few places she could be going. She might risk slipping out a back window, but only if she was _really_ cornered.

The bedroom was empty. The window was closed and locked from the inside and there was nothing under the bed but dust bunnies. Behind the door? Nothing. So where… _shower_.

He flung the curtain open and was greeted with a shriek of, "You _creep!_ "

Ow…eardrums…ringing.

She flung the scrubbie at him, grimaced, and reached for the shampoo. He yanked it out of her hand and pulled out of the shower, not at all caring if he knocked her ankles against the wall on the way.

"Back to Arkham."

"Unhand me, you sick monster! I'm not that kind of a girl!"

He looked for something to gag her with-she really didn't _need_ to be screaming in his ear-and came up with nothing. Oh, well. Once she was in the car, he'd come back and look for…

"What in the world?"

Or not.

Jonathan Crane was standing in the doorway, his mask in one hand and his scythe, dripping blood, in the other.

"It's over, Crane."

"You look a little the worse for wear, Bats…and that solves the mystery of _that_ missing shirt."

Really. They were going to do this now?

"I was too lazy to get dressed up, sorry."

He really didn't care. He started towards the man in the doorway, trying to ignore the thrashing, shrieking woman behind him.

"Let go of me, you sorry bastard!" She yanked at her hands before curling her legs around a chair. The chair fell over to be dragged along behind them.

"As amusing as this is, Bats, I really must ask you to let go." Where had that grappler got to? "If you don't, I'll cut your hands off."

Sure he would.

Ah! Grappler.

He was about to fire it when the chair knocked into his ankles. It didn't really hurt, but it was surprising.

"Sorry."

Sometimes he wondered if it would be worth it to kill them and make it look like an accident. He didn't _want_ to stoop to their level, but…

"What was that?"

"Shut up, it's what I had!"

The scythe swung at him and he dodged, his grip loosening on Richardson's hands. She yanked them free and bolted for the door.

"Put the scythe down, Crane."

"And be tackled? Not hardly. I'm enjoying relatively good health right now, and you'll ruin it. God knows how many sick people you've come in contact with." He shuddered. "We'll just be on our way, if you don't mind."

He did mind, thank you very much.

Forget the grappler. He had what Alfred referred to as 'Batarangs' and what he preferred to call 'custom ninja stars'. (A holdover from a happy childhood spent playing Ninjas with his father.)

They turned and ran. They'd be going for the front door. He'd just meet them in the street.

…

Well? Where were they?

SLICE!

He ducked just in time and turned to catch another attempted swing in his arm gauntlet. Crane let him keep the scythe and backed off, already reaching for the fire escape behind him. But where was the other one…

THUD.

Ow.

Did she just hit him with a rock?

Yes. Yes, she did.

He angled himself to keep them both in his line of vision and put his foot on the scythe, just in case.

"Drop the rock."

"Make me."

Well, if she wouldn't be nice about it…

He grabbed her and flung her at Crane, sending them both into the brick wall behind them.

_Two birds with one stone…_

Before they could get up, he fired his grappling gun. There.

"Ow…"

"Back to Arkham."

"Fuck you." He'd just ignore that. "I'm cold."

She should have taken the robe, then. He did offer.

"You broke my glasses." Crane grumbled. "You should be grateful you didn't put an eye out."

No.

"We can walk, you know."

Yeah, but dragging them awarded him some small (petty) feeling of satisfaction.

THE END


	12. Found, Pt. 2

If anybody notices the dented chair, nobody says anything. They brought another chair for Crane a while ago, and he fell asleep in it. Batman's tempted to take him in now, while he can't do anything about it, but he doesn't. It'll be easier to take them both at once. And safer. He doesn't really like leaving them unattended.

Crane's little nap is cut short when Kitty coughs. That drags him upright, the mostly empty coffee cup nearly slipping from his fingers.

"Kitty?"

She doesn't seem to be awake and he settles back into his chair. Batman sighs and wishes she'd hurry up about it. This chair is uncomfortable.

"You can leave now."

As if. He's not leaving them alone, surrounded by helpless civilians.

He snorts and Crane closes his eyes again.

"I didn't think you would."

This is ridiculous. She's not going anywhere, she's perfectly stable, and he needs to be back out there! He supposes he could drag him out, but that toxin…no, best to just sit here and wait.

"Do you always have to brood?"

"Humph."

"You must have been severely traumatized if you're dressing up like a caped ninja and chasing after us." Why can't he go back to sleep? He was tolerable when he was sleeping. "What was it? Death in the family? Hostage situation?"

"Shut up, Crane."

"Ah, I've struck a nerve." Smug little… "If I were to guess, I'd say parents, but…"

"Shut _up_ , Crane."

He smirks and sets the cup on the table.

"I thought so."

Batman doesn't answer. Crane takes something out of his sleeve and starts twisting it around in his hands. Toxin.

"Drop it."

"No."

He could make him, maybe, but he doesn't really want to be gassed. Besides, Crane's not doing anything with it. Yet.

When he looks over again, Crane has fallen back asleep, slumped over the bed. The canister is clutched loosely in his hand. He should take it, but he doesn't want to startle him.

"Hullo, Batman."

"Miss Richardson."

"You clash with the décor."

He rolls his eyes.

"You look well."

"In what world do you live in, sunshine?" She moves her hand so it's resting on Crane's head. "Thank you, by the way."

For what? He's just been sitting here, feeling the dent in the chair.

"Hm."

"You still clash horribly." She yawns. "Please go away, I don't like strange men watching me sleep."

He isn't sure what she's implying. Should he be insulted?

No.

"I can't."

"I could scream for security."

"You won't."

"But I could." They stare at each other. She finally settles down and mumbles, "At least stare at something besides me. Stare at the wall."

Whatever.

 _God_ , this chair is uncomfortable.

THE END


	13. Found, Pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're going to hate me tomorrow. You really are.
> 
> I look forward to it.

He's not sure how he got here. One minute there was a blinding flash and a horrible **_boom!_** and then…nothing. Well, nothing for about five minutes. Then he became aware that his head ached, his stomach hurt, and that Kitty was lying a few feet away from him, not moving.

He must have walked here, but he doesn't remember that. He doesn't really remember anything leading up to a few minutes ago.

They said she'd be fine. He doesn't really believe them-they have every reason to lie to him. Besides, if she was going to be fine, she'd have woken up and told him so.

"Mr. Crane?" It's not worth it to correct the girl. "Did you want a cup of coffee?"

Coffee…coffee sounds okay.

"Yes."

She leaves and a few minutes later-or is it half an hour later?-she comes back with a Styrofoam cup.

"She'll be okay." He's not so sure of that. "Doctor Murphy wants to look at you…"

"Send him in and then go away."

She hands him the cup-her hands are shaking, good-and leaves. He slumps forward, inhaling the smell of burnt coffee. Ugh. Just like Arkham's.

"Kitty?"

She doesn't answer and he takes a sip. Is this drugged? It had better not be drugged, or there'll be hell to pay for it.

"Dr. Crane?" That's better. "I'd like to take a look at you. May I?"

He looks up at the man, appraising him. He doesn't seem dangerous. Besides, he has one last canister up his sleeve.

"You may."

"Okay." He comes in, hands held a little ways away from his coat, and sits down across from Jonathan. "How are you feeling?"

They are _not_ going to do the social niceties.

"Never you mind. Just get this over with and get out."

Murphy nods and bites his lip.

"I'm going to need you to unbutton your shirt so I can look at those."

His fingers are shaky and it takes him a minute to manage the buttons. Murphy winces and leans over to look at the wounds in his stomach. Now that he thinks about it, they really do hurt.

"These will need stitches."

"I'm not moving." He might be able to manage that himself. He's given himself stitches before, but they usually turned out messy. "You can do that in here, or you can go."

"Dr. Crane…"

"Then get out."

Murphy leaves and Jonathan sets his cup down. After a few minutes, he pulls his chair closer to the bed and rests his upper body across it. Ohh, he's exhausted and sore. Why won't she wake up?

"Kitty?"

She doesn't answer and he drops his head. This has got to be the longest night of his life.

* * *

He must have drifted off after they gave him stitches, because he comes to with a warm weight on his head.

"Kitty?"

"Hey, love."

She's still loopy, and he has no intention of letting her do anything for the next week or four, but she's awake. She's _awake_.

"Kitty." he mumbles again. She rubs his head and he purrs. Warm. Safe. She's _okay_. "How are you feeling?"

"M'okay, love." He sighs and closes his eyes. Once the drugs wear off, they'll go home.

"Promise?"

"Yeah."

That's good enough for him.

THE END


	14. Ticking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who aren't ancient, 'snow' is that weird static-y stuff that appeared on TV when there was nothing on. (Once upon a time, all broadcasts stopped at midnight.) We used to have a few VHS tapes that began or ended with it-usually old, shitty ones.
> 
> And yeah. I did warn you yesterday...

It had been six months of…well, not crime-free, but Scarecrow-free Gotham.

Six months since he'd left Jonathan Crane to die in an explosion.

It hadn't been on purpose. He could either save the hostages or save the Scarecrow, and he'd meant to come back for him. There just hadn't been time. And then the fire had spread to the generator and…well.

For the first two months, he'd been obsessive about looking for signs that he'd gotten out. But there hadn't been any. The only rumors he could find were what he already knew-that he'd been killed.

Logically, it was no great tragedy. It was one less masked lunatic causing terror in Gotham. But selfishly…god, he felt guilty. If he'd been just a little bit quicker, just a _minute_ …

So now, six months afterwards, he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Kitty Richardson would have heard about this almost immediately-news traveled fast in Gotham's underworld-and he hadn't been able to track her down. They'd escaped Arkham within two days of each other and she'd just…dropped off the face of the earth.

Planning. Waiting. Whatever she came up with, it wouldn't be pretty.

"You called, Commissioner?"

Gordon sighed and held up a tape. There was nothing written on it-not even a 'play this'.

"This came around noon. No note. As far as we can tell, it's just an ordinary tape."

Hm.

Batman picked it up and looked at it.

"Have you played it?"

"No."

They went inside and put it in the player. There was nothing but snow for a few minutes, but soon enough an image appeared on the screen.

"Hullo, Batman. Jim. How are we this fine evening? Happy? Healthy? Sleeping well, I hope?"

And here it was. The other shoe.

Richardson leaned back in the chair and shoved a bottle of nail polish off camera.

"Sorry. Girl's gotta make time for things. But no matter." She bit her lip and looked away from the camera for a minute. "This has nothing to do with you, Jim. In fact, this is strictly between Bats and myself, so mind your own. If you don't, I'll be forced to make you. But never mind…Batman. Darling. My love." Her smile turned rather bitter. "You know what this is for, don't you? A little accident a few months ago."

He knew it. He knew something would happen. Where was she, anyway? Looked like a library-she was sitting in a leather chair that practically swallowed her up, with a well-lined bookshelf behind her.

"I wouldn't bother deducing my location, dear. For all you know, I'm not even in the country anymore. Now _pay attention_." She tapped one nail on the desk. "I'm not telling you my master plan-I'm not a Bond villain, you know-but I wanted you to know that is entirely your fault. Think about that, will you? I'll be in touch, Bats. And Jim…you might want to take a little vacation. Take Barbara and the kids for some family time at the beach. I'd hate for something to happen to them."

The video ended and Batman took it.

"I'll review this, Commissioner. Be careful."

"But…"

But he was gone, heading across town.

He wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

THE END


	15. Ticking, Pt. 2

It was another week before the first victim was found. Her neighbors had heard shrieking and, when the police finally broke down the door, they found her with her upper body embedded in her mirror.

She died-blood loss-less than twenty minutes later.

"Toxicity tests came back negative." Gordon reported. "Do you think maybe she fell?"

"No. Look at the size of her-she'd have needed a good running start to break the mirror the way she did."

"There was no sign of an intruder."

"There wouldn't be." He examined the woman-about sixty-five, no more than one hundred pounds-and wondered what about her was so special.

"What was in her reading collection?"

Gordon shook his head.

"Romance novels, all of which were tested and came back negative."

He hadn't really expected her to poison the books-they'd done that before-but it was worth a try.

"Any more tapes?"

"No. We haven't heard from her."

That wouldn't last for long.

"I need to examine her apartment for evidence."

What little evidence would remain, anyway, now that the police were through. It wasn't entirely their fault-most of them had families, after all-but still.

There was nothing unusual here-a bottle of perfume, which he took to check, a collection of nail polish, an untouched jewelry box…and no sign of an intruder.

"Did anyone see anybody answering Richardson's description?"

"No. We checked. Maybe this is just a coincidence."

Yeah. Maybe. But the universe was rarely so lazy.

"I don't believe in coincidence." he said gruffly. "I'll be in touch."

* * *

He ran the perfume through every test he could think of and came up with nothing. It _had_ to be it! Other people would have been affected if it was the air conditioner.

He ran the woman's name through the computer, expecting her to be an Arkham nurse or something, anyone that Richardson would have in contact with and despised, and it came up blank.

It wasn't the perfume, there was no motive that he could see…maybe Jim was right. Maybe this was just…another Gotham death.

But oh, he really didn't believe that.

THE END


	16. Ticking, Pt. 3

As much as he hated going down there, he had to go to Arkham. He needed to talk to her doctor. He doubted the man had been successful with her, but maybe he'd have an idea of where she was.

It was worth a try, anyway.

He ran into Harley Quinn on the way down the hall. She was being escorted somewhere, but she spotted him and her face lit up.

"Heya, Bats!"

"Miss Quinn."

"Is it true?" Was what…oh. "About Doctah Crane? It's everywhere, but I told Mistah J that there was _no way_ that would really happen. Right?"

He stayed silent a little too long, apparently, because her face darkened and she kicked him in the shin before being dragged away.

He would never understand the strange sense of family these people had. They would be happy to kill each other, but God forbid somebody _else_ try it.

Then again, he supposed, they extended that same courtesy to him. Their henchmen were allowed to attack him, but they were not allowed to kill him.

What a crazy little world.

He knocked on Doctor Michael's door and went in without waiting for permission. As per usual, there was a muffled gasp and a dropped pencil, but nothing more than that.

"B-Batman." He nodded and shut the door. "What brings you here?"

"Kitty Richardson."

"Right." Michael looked nervous. "What about her?"

"You were her main doctor the last time she was here."

"Yes." He spoke with distaste. "More of a babysitter, really-we didn't talk."

"No? She never confided in you?"

"Oh, she confided in me-a pack of lies. 'My mum refused to buy me this beautiful black pony, and that's why I doused that man in gasoline and dropped a match on him!' That sort of thing."

"Did she ever speak about Jonathan Crane?"

Michael cringed and began rolling his pencil back and forth, now refusing to make eye contact.

"Not particularly. We had a session shortly after he…left us…that last time. She spoke of him then, said he'd probably be back to pick her up. We doubled security, but as you can see, it…didn't work."

It never worked. Part of him wanted to blame them-he knew the night guards spent no small amount of time playing computer games-but part of him knew it wouldn't matter. Crane and Richardson had seen the blueprints. They knew all the little ways out of here. He suspected they could break out if there were six guards watching their cells twenty-four hours a day.

"I see."

"Sorry I couldn't help you, but she never spoke about anything important, and I didn't work with her long enough to have a clue of where she might be now."

"Mm."

"Batman…is it true? That Crane's dead?"

"Yes."

Michael sighed and leaned back.

"I can't say I'm very sorry."

He had nothing to say to that.

* * *

"We got another one."

"Another one?"

"Another video." Gordon hastened to clarify. "Came by special messenger, but he slipped out when the desk sergeant brought it to me."

Damn. He doubted the man would have known anything, but still.

"Let's see."

It looked the same as the first tape-blank, benign. Part of him hoped it was one of those silly, 'you're invited for a free weekend at a health spa!' tapes, but that would be wishful thinking.

"Hullo, Bats. Jim." She leaned back in her leather chair. "I must say, Jim, I'm surprised that you didn't take my advice. One would think you're hoping for a divorce." She laughed, a little bitterly. "What did you think of my little beginner? Alice-through-the-looking-glass…Tetch would be pleased." Batman did not find that at all funny. "No matter. This is just the beginning. Although…since you haven't found me yet-you are getting slow, old boy-I'll give you a little hint. Are you ready?" She paused, apparently giving him an opening to reply. "Look in the cemetery."

And the tape ended.

THE END


	17. Ticking, Pt. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although Batman is not a 'split personality', the idea has been given that HE is real, while Bruce Wayne is a character role. Dove Marquis is mine-she appears in The March of the Penguin, over on ff.net (and hates me for it).

Look in the cemetery…look in the cemetery.

For what? Crane didn't have a grave, and he certainly didn't have a headstone. (Bruce Wayne had considered it, remembered the man's dislike of anything that could be construed as religious, and thought better of it.)

All the same, here he was, trying not to bump into anything and having no idea what he was looking for.

"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"

What appeared to be a tiny R2D2 on cocaine was rolling toward him. It stopped a foot or so away and a stick on top of its head moved up and down.

"YOU ARE AN ENEMY OF THE DALEKS. YOU MUST BE DESTROYED."

What was this thing?

He bent down to get a closer look and another stick-an arm?-moved. He had time to duck behind a tombstone before it spat a bullet at him.

He dove on it before it could do anything else. It made a whining noise and the mechanical whirring stopped.

Huh.

It had once been a plush toy, but somebody had put wheels on the bottom. For that matter, someone had cut into it-probably to rig that gun. Assuming Richardson had left it-likely-she hadn't done this. She wasn't mechanically minded.

He needed to pay a visit to the Penguin.

* * *

"Well, well. Isn't this a…surprise." Cobblepot gave him a wide, insincere grin and motioned for him to sit down. "Miss Marquis, get the man a nice drink."

"No." He didn't sit down, either. He had no intention of playing tea party with Cobblepot. "Have you ever seen this?"

"That's a Dalek." Marquis said. "From _Doctor Who_."

" _Thank_ you, Miss Marquis." Cobblepot folded his hands in front of him. "As it happens, I have seen one of those. In the hands of a certain grieving lady." He gave Batman a disproving look. "Poor, poor Jonathan…and poor you. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes."

Sometimes he wished Cobblepot was mute.

"When."

"Last month. She asked me if I knew someone to modify it for her."

"And?"

"Do you know, I can't recall." He leaned back, one hand absently rubbing his knee. "I gave her a list of people that might suit her."

"What did she want to do with this?"

Cobblepot grinned and spread his hands.

"What do you think, Batman?" he said smoothly. "She wanted to distract you."

* * *

Sure enough, Gordon called in with the report of a hospitalized woman. She was in her apartment, he said-the neighbors, once again, had called the police to report screams. They'd found her beating her head against the wall. Thankfully, they'd gotten to this one in time and she was now sedated and restrained.

He'd hoped she would look like the other one, but she's the polar opposite. Damn.

"It's definitely related, though." Gordon said around his coffee cup. "Same chemicals came up."

"Inhalation?"

"Yeah. Like the last one."

She's just warming up, he knows it. But there's no holidays, no parades…no nothing.

What the hell is she doing?

THE END


	18. Ticking, Pt. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nail stickers-stickers made of nail polish, basically. They come in patterns or solid colours (but who cares about solid colours? that's what bottles are for!) and last for up to fourteen days if you don't screw up the application process and topcoat every few days. There really is a 'love letter' version-it looks like a letter written in cursive.

The homicidal robot-the Dalek, Marquis had called it-hailed from a novelty shop/bookstore downtown called Paper Hearts. Once she was over her fright (there was no way that was _tea_ in that flask), the manager was very…helpful.

"That's her. She used to come in with a young man sometimes. Very polite, always. He used to about clear out my psychology shelves, though." She took another swig. "She was in…oh, last month, I think. Poor dear, she looked an awful mess."

"Did she buy anything besides this?"

"A pack of my Love Letter nail stickers and…let me see."

He left her to boot up the computer again and looked at the stickers in question. She wouldn't be using _those_ against him, anyway. Good.

"Ah, yes. The Dalek, the stickers, and a book of steampunk stories."

She wouldn't be using that against him, either. Hopefully, anyway.

"Did you speak to her at all?"

"Not really. She looked a bit frazzled-I got the impression she wanted to go home."

"She didn't say anything at all?"

"Why are you asking all these questions?"

In answer, he pulled out another picture of Richardson-this one with Crane in it.

"Is this the man she came in with sometimes?"

"Yes."

"This was the Scarecrow." Her hand flew to her mouth for half a minute before she took another swig from her flask. "He died not long ago and she was very upset."

"Oh." Her voice was shaking. "I see. Well…well, I'm afraid I can't help you. As I said, she was upset. I thought perhaps they'd had a falling out or something…they seemed close, when they came in."

That was the problem. Joker might have a temporary rampage if something were to happen to Harley, but he'd move on soon enough.

"Thank you."

He left her downing the last of her drink and got back into the car. That really hadn't been helpful. He still had no idea where the hell she was. For all he knew, she was out of the city.

Or dead…but that was unlikely. She'd want to come after him personally.

He looked at the list of things that had been found in the women's apartments again. Nail polish, jewelry, clothes…

Perhaps the second victim was awake now.

She was not and he ended up back in the car, staring at the list. He was missing something, there had to be something. Unless…

"Jim."

"Huh?"

"Check the blood types."

THE END


	19. Ticking, Pt. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let this be a lesson to all of you-Hell hath no fury like a woman pissed off. I know it should be 'like a woman scorned', but really, let's be honest-breakups are trivial in the whole scheme of life. And before you complain, I didn't cut her throat out. I found her like that. Shame she had to OD on heroin three months later-she was useful.-Kitty

"Did you like my Dalek, Batman?" Richardson leaned back in the chair. "Murder never looked so adorable, did it?" He scowled at the screen, knowing she couldn't see him and not caring. "Oh, sweetie, you'll get wrinkles. Didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

One of these days…

"What d'you think of my nails? They took ages…the things we do to look good, hmm?" She waved a hand in front of the camera. "Jonathan always preferred them to be red…must be a guy thing." She shrugged and folded her hands atop the desk. "How's the case coming along? I heard you paid a visit to Mrs. Pepper, bless her big mouth."

The camera panned out-not much, but enough to include someone else. A woman, middle-aged.

The owner of Paper Hearts.

She was tied to chair, looking very much the worse for wear. Her hair was out of its bun and there a lump on her forehead. A strip of duct tape was across her mouth.

**BANG!**

Blood spattered the camera, but they could make out enough to see the now-headless body of Mrs. Pepper fall to the side.

"Maybe be a little more subtle in your attempts. And enjoy the new death on your conscience."

The screen went black.

"God."

He had nothing to say. He'd get her-he'd catch her and throw her back in Arkham for good this time, if it meant he had to paralyze her to do it. It didn't have to be fatal, just permanent.

"We kept the messenger this time, but she's mute-had her vocal cords cut out." Christ. "Maybe she'll communicate with you-she won't react to us."

The messenger was a girl-sixteen, maybe?-with a hideous scar on her throat. She didn't even look at Batman apart from a quick glance when he entered the room. Brave, then. Or stupid.

Or drugged-her pupils were incredibly dilated and her lower lip was bloody and swollen where she'd been chewing it.

Yeah, she'd been drugged-probably a mild sedative to keep her from panicking. Richardson? Probably-Jim would have told him if they'd drugged her.

"Who hired you?"

She looked at him again, blinked three times, and shook her head.

"You don't know, or you won't tell?"

She gave him the finger.

* * *

"Any luck, sir?"

"No."

"Might I suggest a hot bath? Might help you think."

"No time, Alfred." He stormed into the cave and booted up the computer. "I need to find her."

The blood types hadn't worked, either. There was no pattern.

_Of course there's no pattern, there's only two toxin-related incidents._

He'd found out who her little messenger was-Rosalie Jepson, nineteen, with a record for petty theft. No word on what had happened to her throat. But that wasn't helpful.

Maybe those deaths were coincidence…leftover books…no. No, she'd done something.

He brought up their files. The two women looked nothing alike, and at first look they had nothing in common. They weren't even the same age.

He ran their names through a word program, looking for anagrams. Nothing came up.

_Jonathan Crane, laughing despite the smoke…_

He shook his head. Crane was bad enough before, this mental ghost was not allowed.

The neighbors hadn't reported anything interesting, and neither had the families. As far as anyone could tell, there was no reason-not even a bad one-that they would have been targeted. One of them was divorced, the other never married. So it wasn't even a matter of 'no one will have a happy relationship EVER AGAIN'.

Wait.

There, on the list of 'foods in cupboard'. Both of them had had the same-obscure-brand of green tea.

It was something.

THE END


	20. Ticking, Pt. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce/Batman likes little umbrellas in his smoothies. No, I don't know why. Because. And he is traumatized by Bambi. And The Lion King.

He'd barely set foot in the police station when Gordon reported that they had received a tape and a box of tea in the mail. He kept the tea for analysis and put the tape in the player.

"Hullo." There was a spot of dried blood on top of the camera and she reached over to scratch it off. "Sorry about that…thought I got it all. Guess not." She didn't look well. Too pale, too thin. "I haven't seen you running around much lately, Bats. Don't tell me you're letting people die because of little ol' me?"

Gordon shot him a look over his glasses. He ignored it.

"Are you tired, darling? Been running yourself ragged, I'm sure. Not sleeping." She gave the camera a weak smile. "Forgive me for not feeling very sorry. Oswald told me you went to see him, though. You must be desperate. So soon…I forget, you don't have 'fun'. You probably never even watched _Bambi_ as a child."

He had. He had not watched it since.

"I'll give you a hint, Mister Un-Fun. The tea is harmless. I wouldn't poison _that_. There are _rules_ , you know. And rule number eighty-six is that people who poison tea have a special spot in Hell reserved for them." He didn't trust her. Not one bit. She probably knew it, too, which was why she'd sent the tea…

Oh, that wasn't fair.

He was testing it anyway, just to call her bluff.

"I have no idea who's next, though. Round and round it goes, and where it stops, nobody knows!" She laughed and flung her legs over the arm of the chair. "You'll have to work fast…it was a big batch, and you know, it just _flew_ off the shelves."

The camera went black.

* * *

_He'll be back, he just has to get this guy out first. He's got time and Crane's not going anywhere, handcuffed to the pipe like that._

_He deposits the unconscious man on the grass away from the building and turns, fully intending to run back in there. He's halfway across the lawn when there's a nasty BOOM! and then…nothing. No sound apart from the crackling fire. No screaming._

_Just a collapsed structure, steadily burning into ash._

* * *

He started awake, tangled in blankets. It was already midday-Sunday, though, he could claim he was out partying if anyone asked.

That wasn't the first time he'd had that dream, and it wouldn't be the last. He knew it wouldn't-he still had dreams of the people he couldn't save when the Joker blew up the monorail, and that was two years ago now.

He got up and wandered downstairs for a smoothie. It was Alfred's day off, but no matter-he could make his own smoothie.

He was just getting out a little umbrella to put on it when the news went from 'new erotica novel starring the Riddler to be released this Friday' to 'second confirmed Scarecrow-related death'.

That warranted higher volume.

"Margaret Thorn, thirty-two, was reported dead this morning following a coma brought on by a dose of fear toxin." They cut to a brief clip of the Narrows. "Eyewitnesses report seeing the Scarecrow"-here it flashed to a blurry picture-"early this morning…"

That wasn't possible. He looked up the picture in question and frowned. That wasn't Crane. Richardson, maybe-she'd done it before.

He felt a wave of sorrow for Margaret Thorn. Her last days had not been pleasant-the doctors had confided that she'd been suffering violent hallucinations and nightmares.

He looked at her college graduation picture. She'd been a pretty girl-blonde, tan, athletic. She'd been on the school swim team and later had gone to work as a kindergarten teacher. She bore no resemblance to the terrified woman in the hospital bed, the one with her lips half chewed through from fright.

He wondered if Richardson was watching the news. Something told him that she was.

Something also told him she was laughing.

THE END


	21. Ticking, Pt. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play Batman, shall we? See if you can puzzle it out before he does. Anyone that gets it right…I dunno, actually.
> 
> 1)I meant it when I said they were random victims. I have no idea who's next.
> 
> 2)They will be mostly-if not all-women.
> 
> 3)The toxin can either be inhaled (from a short distance only) or absorbed through the skin.
> 
> 4)It is in something that most of us have under the bathroom sink.
> 
> 5)It is in something highly flammable, although it not used for setting fires. Rather, it is used for making us pretty.  
> Good luck! -Kitty

As much as he hated to admit it, she hadn't lied to him. The tea was clean. Tasted like dishwater-when tests came up blank, he'd risked a cup-but it was harmless.

Really, though, she wasn't the tea-poisoning kind. She had…he hated to call them morals, seeing as she _would_ shoot you in the face, but…

Never mind. The tea was clean, all three boxes. (He'd borrowed the other two from evidence.)

He crouched on a rooftop, hoping to blend in with the gargoyles, and watched the steady stream of traffic, the lights blurry in the drizzle. She was here, in this city. She had to be.

There was a gunshot and he swooped downwards. There! In that alley. God, why did people in this city insist on going in alleys…

The victim was a man-a kid, really, a twitchy kid that was probably on something. Now he was lying on the ground, pleading with his attacker.

"I didn't know it was _you_ , I'm sorry!"

He looked at the gunman.

Or, rather, gunwoman.

"Hullo, Batman. Sorry about this, I haven't got your number." She lowered the gun. "You look terrible. I told you not to scowl so much."

"Richardson."

"Please…"

"Shut up, bitch!" The gun suddenly came up, past the guy on the ground and towards Batman instead. "You. You are responsible for this."

"He knew the risks."

"That idiot you saved died three hours later!" Her voice echoed in the alley. "Three. Hours. You didn't save him, you brought him out to die."

"I'm sorry."

"Not yet."

She fired. But instead of a bullet, a capsule came flying out of the barrel and landed on the ground at his feet, smoking a little.

By the time he got his gas mask on and carried the incapacitated druggie to safety, she was gone.

* * *

 _"_ _Feeling guilty, Bats?" Crane's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. "You should be. Suffocation is not the nicest way to go."_

 _"_ _I didn't mean…"_

 _"_ _Oh, don't tell lies." He can see him now, a thin shadow with no face. "You meant it. You may be regretting it now, but at the time…very Norman Bates."_

_He's tied to a chair with human intestines, he realizes. They squish when he tries to break free, but his efforts only make them draw tighter._

_"_ _I'm sorry."_

 _"_ _No, you're not." The shadow drags itself into the light. Crane is barely recognizable now-he seems to be missing chunks of flesh and his head shouldn't be tilted_ that _far sideways. "You will be."_

 _"_ _Crane…"_

_Hot, burned fingers ease under the cowl and draw it upwards. There's nothing he can do and it comes off without a fuss, melting in Crane's grasp._

_"_ _Bruce Wayne." There's no trace of surprise in the voice, only smugness. "I wonder what it'll be like, looking for a new butler. Do they even train butlers nowadays, or is yours a relic?"_

_The hot fingers flutter over his face before suddenly digging into his eye sockets._

_"_ _Now you really are blind as a bat…"_

* * *

He woke in his own bed, gasping and feeling frantically for his eyes to make sure they were still there. What a nightmare…what time was it, anyway?

He made his way downstairs to look for Alfred.

"Morning, Master Wayne."

"Alfred."

"Feeling better, sir?"

"Huh?"

"You came in rather the worse for wear last night. Don't you remember?"

There must have been something in that fog…a new compound…

"Yes." he lied. "Yes, I remember. I'm feeling better."

"Now that that's settled, sir, you may wish to take a look at this." A paper slid across the table. The headline 'TEN WOMEN RUSHED TO THE HOSPITAL FROM SCARECROW TOXIN, SEVEN DEAD' glared up at him.

He paged through until he found the article-complete with accompanying pictures. Journalists had no shame…

"A salon." he said. "Four stylists, five customers and the secretary. Two of them had violent reactions and attacked the others."

"I see."

 _"_ _You're not quite sorry enough, Bats…"_

He shook his head to dispel Crane's voice and earned a soft chuckle in return.

 _"_ _You know, I'd worry about dear Jim, I really would."_

THE END


	22. Ticking, Pt. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitty's about five feet tall. Jonathan is…was…about six-three. (Comics said so!) If she wants to wear anything of his out in public, and not as a we-just-had-sex-and-I'm-hungry thing, it takes work. Mostly belts or knot-tying.

Gordon was still at the stricken beauty parlor that evening. It had been mostly cleaned up by now, although the rug was ruined and so were the chairs. The whole place smelled of acetone.

"What happened."

"It was a mass panic, apparently. Just came out of nowhere-one minute everything was fine, and the next minute one of the stylists attacked her customer with a pair of nail clippers."

Hm. How nice.

 _"_ _Isn't it, though?"_

He ignored the smug voice and started looking through the few items that hadn't spilled. A few nail polishes, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a half-gone jar of hand cream…nothing out of the ordinary.

"Have you checked the air conditioner?"

"Yes, they found noth-hang on."

He stepped away to answer his phone. Batman knelt before a damp patch on the rug. Ugh. He never could stand the smell of these places…focus!

 _"_ _Having trouble?"_

He didn't know how long he knelt there, but at some point he became aware of Gordon's terrified voice.

"I have to go…Barbara, she's in the hospital…"

And that was all he got out before he ran for the door. Batman stayed, debating: stay or go?

 _"_ _I tried to tell you…"_

"Shut up." he growled, knowing he looked crazy and not caring. Maybe he was crazy. Wasn't everyone in this town?

He'd stay, he decided, and check up on him tomorrow. He'd need some alone time with her, in case she…yeah.

* * *

"Hullo, Jim."

Gordon lifted his head and fumbled for his glasses-they'd fallen onto the bed when he fell asleep.

"You."

"I'm sorry." She slumped against the door frame, a familiar, tattered burlap mask hanging from her fingers. "But this had nothing to do with you. She'll be fine-it'll wear off soon enough, I promise. I gave her an older batch. It's weak now. It wasn't very good to begin with, actually." She gave him a weak smile. How did she get in here? She wasn't even dressed like a nurse or a doctor-she was wearing a shirt that was far too big for her, probably one of Crane's.

"Richardson…"

"I really am sorry." she said again. "You were always nice to us-didn't try to hit on me or break his glasses."

"Why." He stood up. "Why are you doing this."

"Don't come any closer."

"Richardson…"

"I mean it. Just because I like you doesn't mean I won't kill you."

Did he have time to pull a gun on her? He was pretty sure…

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't do it." She straightened up, fingers tightening on the mask. "But I can't have you getting in the way. You're not a player in this game."

He went for the gun. Her arm came up.

And then Two-Face appeared at the door, James held tightly in his grip.

"Lie, Gordon. Like I lied."

* * *

"How is he."

"Hey, hey! Where the hell were you?"

"How is he!"

Bullock cringed before suddenly straightening up and throwing his toothpick away.

"Not good, Bats. He's not good. They've got him sedated, and they got everything on camera, but she's gone. Tipped a nurse off on the way out, though."

He didn't know what to say. If he'd been here-he wouldn't even have had to come in, he could have stayed outside…

Bullock was talking again.

"They say they've seen it before, it's an old batch."

"She didn't want to kill him."

"Huh?"

"She wanted him out of the way, not dead."

Bullock snorted and readjusted his fedora.

"Sure, Bats, sure. And the Joker's preforming at birthday parties."

 _"_ _I tried to tell you, Batman."_ Crane's voice purred. _"Feeling guilty yet?"_

He clenched his jaw and tried to ignore it, but it didn't work.

 _"_ _Just because it's old doesn't mean it's harmless."_

There was a steady pounding behind his right eye. He took one last, regretful look at Jim-he was still restrained, the thick leather straps having seen far too much use already.

 _"_ _One day soon you'll be right there with him."_

"Shut up."

The voice laughed.

 _"_ _You're already on the train to Crazytown! Maybe they'll put you in Arkham, see what makes…you…tick."_

THE END


	23. Ticking, Pt. 10

"Sir, if I might suggest…"

"No, Alfred. I can't go to bed right now."

"Master Bruce…"

"She got Jim. I have to find her."

 _"_ _Good luck."_

He shook his head, rubbed his temples, and resumed reviewing the hospital tape. She hadn't had the mask on, she'd just brought it up for a second when she gassed Gordon. Then she'd backed out of the room…collared a nurse and pointed…and given the camera the finger before walking away, out the door.

He rewound the tape and paused it, zoomed in. There was the mask-funny, he thought Crane had had it…never mind, he probably had a few. Or maybe she'd made a new one.

He hated that thing. He'd seen firsthand what it looked like to their victims, and it wasn't pretty.

So the mask was no clue. Neither was the shirt-from the looks of it, it was one of Crane's old ones. She hadn't been anywhere interesting…

He sighed and slumped over the table, his head throbbing. Maybe Alfred was right…just a power nap, fifteen minutes or so.

He turned away and began shuffling towards the cot he kept down here for just such emergencies. Fifteen minutes.

* * *

 _"_ _Crane…"_

_Alfred lies on the floor, his clothes becoming steadily redder. He tries desperately to break free, but the knots hold and he can't move._

_"_ _Crane, please…"_

 _"_ _I seem to recall saying the same thing." The hideous figure bends over Alfred and raises a hammer. "I begged you to let me go, don't you remember?"_

_CRACK!_

_Alfred's body jerks as the hammer shatters the ribs. He screams and tries to chair-hop there, but the chair is bolted down._

_"_ _Pleaded with you, in fact."_

_CRACK-SPLINTER!_

_Crane tosses the hammer aside. It lands with a dull thunk somewhere in the shadows._

_"_ _But no, you had to save the innocent. You couldn't even have uncuffed me." He sees Crane pull shattered ribs aside, tossing them away to join the hammer. "Who appointed you judge, jury and executioner?"_

 _"_ _I'm sorry, please…"_

_Crane suddenly stands up and makes his way over. He's got something in his hands._

_"_ _Something tells me Kitty won't believe you." A bitter smirk graces his lips. "Tell her hello for me, won't you?"_

_He drops something warm and squishy in Batman's lap. When he looks down, he begins to scream again._

_Sitting there is Alfred's heart._

* * *

He woke, his mouth open in a silent scream, his chest heaving and his boxers practically glued to his body. He'd forgotten-blocked it out, maybe-that Crane had been semi-lucid before he died.

Good god, he'd forgotten. How could he have forgotten that?

He dragged himself out of bed and stripped. He needed a shower.

Ten minutes later, his hair still damp against his neck, he sat down at the computer again. There had to be something. There was always something.

 _Not when Harley targeted taxi drivers._ an insidious voice whispered. He shook his head, opened the video.

It took another three watches to catch it, but catch it he did-her nails. She'd painted letters on her nails: _city lights_.

City lights. There was only one really good place in Gotham to see _everything_.

He had to go.

* * *

"Hullo, Batman."

He remembered dream-Crane asking him to tell her hello.

"Richardson."

She'd changed since earlier-now she was wearing a loose white dress, which was fluttering in the breeze. He was surprised she'd come up this high.

God, she'd snapped, hadn't she.

He took a few steps closer. He'd forgotten how tiny she was-it was no wonder people let her get right up close to them. What damage could she do, really?

"You attacked Jim Gordon."

"It isn't permanent." She turned to him. She was shivering in the breeze, sometimes combing her hair back behind her ears. "Would it have made you feel like I do?"

She was awfully close to the edge. One wrong step and she'd fall, plummet twenty stories to her death.

"I'm sorry." How many times would he have to say it? "I'm so sorry, but I couldn't have saved him."

She said nothing.

"If that's how you feel, then." She straightened up. "Good-bye, Batman."

She smiled at him, flipped him off, and spread her arms.

Then she stepped backwards, off the ledge.

THE END


	24. Ticking, Pt. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate heights! You think I'd be stupid enough to stand by the edge? You should all be ashamed. If I were suicidal, I'd be taking people with me.-Kitty

He hurtled towards the ledge, knowing he couldn't grab her but unwilling to believe it.

She wasn't there.

She wasn't anywhere-not on the fire escape a few stories below, where she would have landed. She was just…just gone, like she'd never been there at all.

**_SWING!_ **

He had time to duck as a scythe swept over his head, kicking out behind him and feeling his foot hit wood. There was a splintering sound and the sound of something light but hard bouncing on the cement.

"What did you see, darling?"

He turned, caught the now-broken scythe and ripped it from her hands. Hallucination. Of course.

"You look happy to see me! Did I die?"

He tossed the scythe away and lunged at her. His body did not want to do what he was telling it and he stumbled, barely managing to right himself. She backed away, eyes darting between him and the scythe. She couldn't reach it from where she was, he could tell. Good.

 _If she dies, it will be your fault. I'll blame you anyway, but it'll be nothing compared to your guilt._ He shook his head, trying to shut it up. Richardson was still backing off, but there were two of her.

There was only one thing to do.

He fired his grappler at her and felt no small amount of pride when it trussed her up and sent her toppling over, shrieking all the way.

"You son of a bitch! Is this how you treat women? I don't let just anyone tie me up! Untie me right now or so help me…"

He knocked her out.

* * *

He was just dropping her at Arkham when his phone rang.

"Is this…erm…Batman?" a woman's voice asked. He did not know this person. Or this number, for that matter.

He grunted in response.

"I'm calling on behalf of James Gordon. He's awake and would like to see you."

Richardson could wait. She was here, she was unconscious, he could come back to question her. Jim, on the other hand, needed something. Or knew something. Either way, he had places to go.

The hospital was cold and silent at this time of night, but he could hear a child crying somewhere.

"Jim."

Jim was lying in bed, an IV in his arm and his glasses on the table. The lamp was on low-Barbara was sleeping in the bed over.

"We got her, Jim."

"You got her?"

He nodded and stepped a little further into the room.

"She's back at Arkham."

"Did she say what it was?"

"She wasn't…conscious."

Jim nodded, and when he spoke again his voice was tired but thankful.

"Thank you." He nodded and stood still, waiting, _wondering._ "I don't need anything, then."

But there was something, he knew there was something. He wouldn't push-Jim would bring it up when he was ready, if it wasn't important-but there was something.

There was always something.

* * *

He knew, even before he pulled up to Arkham, that something was wrong. It was too busy for this time of night.

Somebody was out.

"Who is it."

But he knew, he knew already.

 _Dammit!_ She couldn't have stayed for twenty-four hours? Or even ten?

He could hear the Joker cackling away in the bowels of the asylum, his horrible echoing laughter setting the doctors on edge.

"How."

A video was pressed into his hand and he commandeered the head's office to watch it. It was grainy, and mostly uninteresting, but somebody he didn't know-scrawny redhead, a henchman of hers, no doubt-let her out of the holding cell.

Life was unfair.

She'd left him a note on the cot, which only made it worse.

_You chipped my nails, bastard. Hugs and punches, Kitty_

He scrunched the note and stormed out to the car.

THE END


	25. Ticking, Pt. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered having some kind of Batman/Zombie-Crane kiss, but it really didn't fit too well. Oh, well. This was all mildly inspired by some Batman-novel-thing called Fear Itself, by the way. Not great, but I got it at Goodwill for like, a dollar, so big deal. The polish names, by the way, are real.

_"_ _Well, that didn't work out, did it?"_

_Alfred's body is still lying on the floor, bathed in shadow. He's grateful-he doesn't want to see the blood._

_"_ _Shut up, Crane."_

 _"_ _Ah, Arkham. Never could hold us, not really…"_

_He pulls at his bindings, but they hold fast. Crane shuffles over, leaning heavily on a scythe that's taller than he is._

_"_ _That's always the way, you know. We kill people, you put us back, we break out."_

 _"_ _I'm sorry."_

 _"_ _I keep hearing that, but sorry isn't bringing me back from the dead." A burned hand, hot to the touch and very brittle-feeling, lands on his head. "Who else, who else? Dear little Rachel is no more-probably looks like me now." He laughs and Batman shakes his head, hoping to dislodge the hand. Fingers grip his hair tight enough to hurt. "There is no one else, is there, Bruce?"_

 _"_ _Go to Hell."_

 _"_ _No such thing." The warped mouth twists in some semblance of a grin. "But you're already there, aren't you?"_

* * *

He woke, the feeling of burnt fingers lingering. His heart was pounding and he was having trouble breathing.

He got up off the cot and went to the computer again to review the tapes. There had to be something, there was always something, some tiny clue…

"Girl's gotta make time for things…"

Manicured nail tapping on the table…

Women victims, and that salon…

A bitter smirk of victory spread across his face.

**Gotcha.**

_Oh, aren't you special! Think you can find her?_

He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the clock. He had time to go by evidence and get everything he needed. Tracking her down would be a problem, but that could wait.

* * *

_Leap Flog_

_Bitches Brew_

_Red Eye_

Who was in charge of naming these things? Really?

Never mind. He'd chalk it up to Women's Mysteries and try not to think about it too much.

The nail polishes-all one hundred and nine-of them came up clear. He'd been banking on _Bitches Brew_ , personally, and was almost disappointed that she'd neglected that opportunity.

He picked up the bottle of acetone, noting the word 'FLAMMABLE' in bright red letters.

The other bottles had spilled in the to-dos, their contents evaporating long before anyone else got there. But this one had been in the back, unopened.

He made sure the mask one on before cracking the seal and pouring a generous amount into the tube.

Bingo.

The tests came up bright red, announcing the presence of something that was _not_ acetone.

He bared his teeth in what could technically be termed a grin and reached for the phone.

"Bullock. It's the acetone. Onyx Professional brand. That's right."

Now, to track her down and put her back where she belonged.

THE END


	26. Ticking, Pt. 13

"We got another tape." Jim reported a month later. The acetone had been collected-over a hundred shipments had been hit. Of Kitty Richardson, there was no sign. Not here, not in Georgia…but at least nobody else was dying.

"Great."

"You'll want to see this."

"What's on it?"

Gordon shook his head.

"I don't know if you'll be happy or not."

He put it in. The image came into focus and he felt a familiar exhaustion settle on his shoulders.

Jonathan Crane was sitting in the leather chair, Richardson's arms resting loosely across his shoulders. He looked the same as usual-pale and thin and exhausted, if not a little ill.

"Hello, Bats."

Dear God.

"Didn't think you'd see me again, did you?" He gave the camera a half-smile and let his head drop to the side. "Sorry to say, I have a talent for not dying."

"Lucky for you." Richardson said shortly. Crane chuckled and brought one of his arms up to wind around her waist.

"Indeed, lucky for you. Although I can't really blame you-I'm sure you've spent more than a few sleepless nights since my…presumed demise."

Humph.

"It's all right to admit it. It makes you human. And it amuses me." It was a shame he couldn't wipe that smug smirk off his face through the screen. "Did you like the acetone? It's a very special batch in there, so you had better appreciate it. The first few attempts resulted in some relative of the Molotov cocktail."

He did not appreciate it. He would appreciate none of Crane's little formulas.

"Stop scowling, Bats, your face will stick that way. Although…it might help us find who you are under there. Besides, you should be happy to see me. One less death on your conscience."

Was it really worth it?

"I suppose you're wondering where I've been." Not really. "The answer is simple-recovering from injuries sustained in my last encounter with you. You should be grateful nothing was permanent." He was not grateful. It was a shame he wasn't paralyzed. "But enough talk. I'm tired and would like to go back to bed now. We'll talk again, don't worry. But Batman…" He sat up a bit. "I might not be so forgiving the next time you leave me for dead."

The camera clicked off.

* * *

He kicked the door open and found an empty room. They'd been here, all right-there was the leather chair, the bookshelf, and a letter written in Crane's horrible doctor writing.

_Dear Batman,_

_Sorry to cut and run like this, but Arkham really isn't conducive to my health right now. I won't be up to much for a while-thanks to you, I came out of that with several injuries, one of which became infected. I hold you entirely responsible for anything I may have said in my delirium that could be used against me._

_If you've got half a brain under that cowl, you'll do something productive rather than chase me. I hear the clown broke out again…for that matter, I hear Nygma's got some erotica writer in his sights. Wrote some VERY unflattering prose, I understand. Wonder if there's anything about you on the market…?_

_Farewell, Bats. Between you and me (and Gordon, I suppose, since you'll certainly show this to him), you really ought to be grateful nothing happened to me. I seem to recall Kitty having some interesting…ideas…of what to do to you if I failed to survive. Take care of me-I'm all that stands between you and a_ _Saw_ _-esque demise._

_In ever-decreasing fondness,_

_Jonathan Crane_

'All that stands between you and a _Saw_ -esque demise'? Crane really did have a high opinion of himself.

He scrunched the note and swore.

THE END

 


	27. Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this would probably be me. Seriously, though, Gotham seems pretty divided as to whether Batman is a hero or raving lunatic. I'm thinking both. Somebody's got to stop the clown, but sometimes he goes from 'crazy prepared' to 'dude, that's a sign of extreme paranoia, you need help'.

Ow.

The problem with Gotham, she thought, was that there were too many alleys, and once you were in one-by choice or otherwise-your chances of not getting out increased dramatically.

Like now. They'd ducked down one-the police were shooting at them, and alleys were better than bullets-and not halfway through they'd been knocked into a pile of trash cans.

Batman sucked.

She was pretty certain she had a concussion, she just _knew_ Jonathan had broken ribs-metal pipes were not meant to connect with chests-and he wasn't even done yet.

Maybe dropping by Gotham High's 'Career Day' had been a mistake. But in all fairness, crime was a career. It may have been frowned upon, but so was being a tax collector.

Ow.

A hand grabbed her shirt-if he was trying to cop a feel, he was going to be in a _world_ of hurt!-and pulled her up.

You know, it was at times like this that she was reminded how short she was.

"Hey!"

Nobody moved. Interrupting these things _never_ happened. Never. Fellow rogues? Oh, good, Bats is busy, walk faster. Police? Nothing to see here, move along.

"What are you doing?"

Oh dear god, she must be new.

Poor thing. Poor _dumb_ thing.

The grip on her shirt loosened and she dropped back down, a trash lid digging into her back.

"Who is that?"

"No idea." He sounded out of it. "An idiot."

Well, that was a given.

The owner of the voice came into the alley, phone in hand.

"What is the matter with you?"

Fangirl? Didn't sound like it. Those had a distinctive shriek that could be heard several blocks away. Besides, they traveled in packs.

Batman was still looming over her, but he turned his body towards the newcomer. He looked frightening from this angle. In all honesty, he looked frightening from _every_ angle. What was he, two hundred pounds of muscle and JUSTICE?

"What do you want." He sounded pissed, but that was his default setting. Under the pissy tone, she could hear confusion.

"What the hell are you doing? They're people! They're sick people!"

That bitch! She wasn't sick. Okay, so her moral compass was a little broken. Big deal.

Beside her, Jonathan was moving a little, one hand reaching for the fallen handgun. All right, nothing major was broken. That was good. Just the usual bumps and bruises, then.

She glanced at the Bat and began inching her way up as well. Ow. Ow. Ow.

"You can't manhandle people like that! What if you really hurt them?"

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then there was a gunshot and their unintentional savior went down, clutching her stomach and screaming.

"Run!"

She didn't think twice.

THE END


	28. Commeuppance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He kind of had it coming, I'm afraid. Setting hallucinating people on fire and kicking them out of high windows is frowned upon.

"Oh, dear."

"I told you, I _told_ you setting him on fire was a mistake!"

"Maybe, yes."

The living gargoyle advances towards them. They back up and hit brick wall. Crap.

They hadn't meant for this to happen. There had been an incident with a customer, and then that damned mobster had thrown a fit and brought the Batman down on their heads. They'd booked it while the ass-kicking was going on but he'd caught up to them soon enough. And now, with no toxin and nowhere to run, they're beginning to acknowledge that they're _screwed_.

"Apologise, that might help."

The gargoyle cracks its knuckles and she nudges his ribs.

"If somehow you were offended by my setting you on fire, I am deeply sorry."

Two things happen in quick succession. One, Batman fires something that shoots a cord, which wraps around her and sends her toppling over. Two, he grabs Jonathan and yanks him off his feet before firing the thing again and disappearing.

A minute later, his (broken) glasses land on the ground next to her and she sighs. Over the potholes and through the gates, it's back to Arkham they go.

She tries liberating herself, but the cord is sturdy-metal fibers, maybe?-and all she does is scrape up her wrists and elbows.

Once this is over, she thinks, they'll have to work on his apology skills.

THE END


	29. Knock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a reason Batman doesn't knock. Joker is the only one crazy enough to answer the door. But…
> 
> I can't see through the peephole on my door, and I've got three inches on Kitty. Life is unfair.

**Knock-knock.**

Nobody knocked in this town, and certainly not on the doors of abandoned buildings.

"See who it is."

"Why do I have to go see?"

"Because you can reach the peephole, for one."

"There's a stepladder."

"Just go look!"

**Knock-knock.**

They freeze and look at the door. No one knows they're here-well, Edward, but he's in Arkham. With a broken jaw besides-apparently Batman finally lost his patience. It was only a matter of time.

"Go look!" she hisses. "It's probably just some crazy homeless guy."

"Then you go look!"

"You'd throw me into harm's way?"

"Kitty, you took a man's arm off with a hacksaw. You're fine."

"You freaked out when I got a paper cut after being arrested."

"It was the principle of the thing!"

"We'll both go."

"Fine."

They stand there for another minute before he finally huffs and steps over to see.

"Well?"

"Shit."

"What?"

"Look."

"I can't reach."

He rolls his eyes-poor, long-suffering _baby_ -and picks her up. She blinks and has to work to repress a giggle.

"You didn't drop a vial, did you?"

He shakes his head and takes another look.

"We're in the Twilight Zone, we must be."

**KNOCK-KNOCK.**

They scuttle backwards, whispers silenced.

"Think he'll go away?"

He shrugs.

"The God Squad* never did."

True, very true.

"What do we do?"

"I don't know."

Why doesn't he just break the door down? That's normal, that's _familiar_. This…this new approach is unnatural and they _do not_ like it.

**BANG-BANG-BANG.**

A hasty decision is reached.

"Fire escape."

They reach the bottom, shaken and confused, and start walking, sticking to the shadows. This has all been very strange. Perhaps they should check into Arkham for a spell, get some rest.

"Should we have answered?"

He gives her a _look_ and shakes his head.

"No."

They're just reaching the end of the alley when there's a noise.

Aw, crap. That sounds like the noise of JUSTICE.

Five minutes, several bruises and one broken wrist later, they're in the back of the tank, heading back to Arkham.

They definitely should have answered the door.

THE END

* _People that knock on your door to try and convert you. Jonathan likes them even less than he likes other people. -Kitty_


	30. Chase the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sometimes play a game with my original novel characters and my fanfic OCs called 'what would your boss fight be like?' Kitty would either be a cutscene boss (I'm betting two minutes before she gets her ass kicked), or the boss that sets waves of mooks on you before coming down to deal with you themselves. Title comes from the Repo! The Genetic Opera song, which is totally her boss battle soundtrack. (Read three times for full boss experience-isn't three the magic number?)

He pushes the door of the old theatre open, upsetting a flock of crows nesting nearby. They attack him, cawing angrily, until he smacks one of them out of the air. The others then flutter back to the rafters, ruffled and pissy but no longer willing to rush him. Good.

"Batman." Crane's in the top box, leaning on the railing there. "Glad you could come."

He takes a quick look around for anything strange and comes up with nothing.

"I can't stay, I'm afraid. Kitty, will you entertain our guest?"

"Sure." The light catches those strange steampunk-y goggles she's taken to wearing lately. "I'll see you soon."

They kiss and Crane turns, starts for the stairs. Batman goes to fling a Batarang at him, but what little light there was cuts out.

"No, no. Can't have that, not yet."

There's the clicking of a heavy switch and a spotlight hits the stage. Said stage is empty, the broken remnants of the last show preformed here scattered here and there. Crane was here once before, killing the patrons and the actors. It wasn't long before the place was abandoned, like so many other places in Gotham.

"Look at you, Bats." Her voice echoes. "Come here to play with me."

There! A moving shadow, strolling down the stairs.

"How have you been enjoying New Gotham, hmm?" He starts towards her, knowing that she can see him through the dark goggles. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's over, Richardson."

She stops and he can see her head tilting.

"Oh, no. It's never over."

It is for now.

He fires his grappler upwards, latches onto a gargoyle that he's not exactly positive can hold his weight. Maybe it could have, but they know him well.

BOOM!

It cracks and for a minute he thinks it might not have cracked through, but then it falls, taking him with it. He rolls aside milliseconds before it hits him and hears her laughing above the cawing of the upset crows.

"Surprise." She's onstage now, black coat billowing around her ankles. "You want me? Come get me."

He gets about three steps in before there's a shriek, like a ReDead from Zelda, and a long-armed, long-legged man falls from the beams and wraps around him. He backhands him in the face, feels bones crunch (he'll live, it's just a nose), and shakes him off.

But that three-second delay is all it took for gun-toting henchmen to appear from backstage, guns cocked.

This just got a little more complicated.

He'll have to risk the other gargoyle, maybe get up into the box.

But first, the lights. He can manage in the dark, can they?

He takes out the spotlights and goes for the gargoyle just as they start shooting. This one's not rigged. They want him up here. He has no choice.

Some sort of unearthly choir blares from the speakers under the gargoyle and he flinches, nearly falls.

He clicks on his night vision* and eyes the nearest mook.

_ZIP-YANK!_

He screams and shoots wildly before finally dropping the gun. It goes off and there's another scream of, "MY FOOT, BITCH!"

That wasn't the plan, but he's not sorry.

The guy he grabbed passes out before he even gets to the top and he lets him back down none-too-gently. Then he grabs another one. Turns out to be the one with the injured foot, and he somehow stays conscious on the way up.

"Oh, god..."

"Hi."

One nerve-pinch** later, his latest victim is down for the count and he drops him by the other one.

One remains, but he can't quite reach him. He'll go to him, then.

He drops down and crouches in a row of seats. The guy's maybe...four rows away. He can get him from here.

The grappler wraps around ankle and Batman yanks the man off his feet and towards the chairs, ignoring his panicked wails. Said wails are quickly silenced and the man is abandoned in the rows. He won't be getting up in a hurry.

_SLICE!_

He ducks again, rolls out of her way and clambers onto the stage. That scythe is as long as she is tall, and he's not getting too close to the blade.

"Well, well! Haven't aged a day, have you, old man?"

_SWISH!_

"Come here. I don't bite. Unless you want me to."

He catches the scythe in his gauntlet and rips it out of her hands. She steps back, already going for a gun. He tackles her before she can get it.

"Not today."

"You're right." Her hand mashes against his face and he catches a glimpse of a familiar mechanism in her sleeve before it goes off.

THE END

*Twice I typed that as Knight Vision, but Batman has no time for puns. Frowny-face.

**Appears in _Scarecrow: Year One_. (And likely others.) Used on Robin, of all people.


	31. Caged Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bummer, kiddo. My, it does suck to be you…doesn’t really settle into my canon, but I felt like being a little evil and poor Jason’s suffered enough today.

It’s sad, really, that Nightwing has reached a point where being jumped and knocked out is just…not that exciting. He doesn’t _like_ it-he’s not a glutton for punishment or anything-it’s just…eh. He’ll work his way free eventually (or Batman will collect him, joy), and haul whoever’s behind this to the GCPD for the night.

A door opens and the mook lounging across from him snaps to attention. Nightwing has to wonder-Penguin? Two-Face? Crane? God, hopefully not Crane, he has no desire to risk a lungful of fear gas. (Or a syringeful, for that matter.)

It’s not Crane, but it will be soon enough-Richardson steps into his line of sight, flanked by a pair of dull-looking men and a small cluster of armed mooks.

“Hullo, little bird. No squawking tonight?”

He grins-ow, that is definitely a split lip.

“Hi.”

“See, boys, I knew I liked this one. Has manners.”

The dull ones say nothing, but the others nod seriously behind her back. One reaches forward and pokes the dull ones, one after the other, and after a minute they nod, too.

“You look tired, Richardson.”

“You keep your trap shut.”

Oh, but she’s so easy to rile.

Then again, he thinks, maybe riling is a poor idea. That pipe looks like it’s seen things tonight already, and he’s still trying to get an angle to reach the lock pick in his sleeve-he can just feel it, poking mockingly at his wrist.

“Maybe it’s the other one that has manners…there’s so many of them. How many, now? There’s this one, the dead one, the new one…god, where does he find you all?”

That’s enough. Any hope of witty banter went down the drain at the mention of Jason.

He’s just about got the angle he needs when one of the armed mooks hands his gun to his buddy and comes up.

“Now?”

“Mm-hm.”

Now? What now?

He squirms desperately, but the guy steps behind him and wraps meaty arms around his neck. Richardson adjusts her grip on the pipe and there’s no time to prepare before she swings, **hard** , and he feels his shoulder leap from its socket.

**Shit. Ow.**

It’s not the first time, but it hurts where the hell is Batman dammit-

“Whoops.” She doesn’t sound sorry. “Look at that, little bird’s got a broken wing.” He doesn’t have the breath for one-liners, so he settles for spitting at her shoes. “I think it must be one of the other ones I like, after all. Oh, well.”

Okay. Breathe in, breathe out. Ignore the pain. Ignore the fact that shoulders aren’t supposed to dangle like that.

He’s dropped and now there’s no hope of getting any sort of angle now. He could try a dislocated thumb-what’s something else, now?-but the cuffs are tight as hell and he doesn’t think it’ll work.

She’s dialing someone and he has the nasty feeling he knows who it is.

“Mm-hm…broken wing.” Cute. Really, hilarious. “D’you want him…you’re sure? I can have him back in less than an hour…all right, love, if you say so. Mm-hm-don’t nag, I’m fine.” Why. “I don’t _nag_ , I _worry_ , and I’m better at it than you.” Yes. Yes, keep talking, give him time to think about this. “All right, then. See you soon. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Crane’s voice, raised and decidedly annoyed, comes through the speaker.

“I _never_ do anything stupid, Kitty.”

She laughs at him.

“Lies.”

“Kitty, don’t you dare-”

She hangs up. A second later, the phone rings again and she tosses it into the throng of goons.

“One of you answer that, I’m busy.”

Looks of horror are exchanged before one of them is shoved away from the others, phone in hand.

“Uh, boss?”

“ _Outside_ , that is _rude_.”

“Sorry, sorry-no, boss, not you-”

He leaves. Nightwing almost feels sorry for him.

Almost.

Unfortunately, there’s no sign of Batman and there’s no moving for him, not like this. Bastards even chained his ankles.

Richardson turns her attention back to him.

“Lucky you, I don’t have to lug you back to Jonathan.”

“No murder-presents?”

“Hilarious.” she deadpans. Well, he thought it was funny. “You know, boys, I think it must be one of the other ones I like best. Oh, well.”

He’ll have to tell Tim-it has to be Tim, Jason cracked a short joke within five minutes of meeting her-that his nice manners are making villain friends.

She snaps her fingers and the dull ones shuffle forward, eyes blank. Nightwing sees matching scars just above their left eyes and shudders.

“Took a bit of work to get it right, and even then I had to take out their vocal cords…they just wouldn’t stop screaming.”

“You sick, twisted-”

“Psychotic bitch, I’m going to Hell, I know. That’s what they said. Y’know, before I got out my little ice pick.”

They blink, eyes fixed on the wall. Nightwing wonders if they can even see. Richardson leans down and pats his head. He tries to bite her, but moving is a poor choice. Very poor. “You can say hullo to the other little bird. The one Joker broke.”

“Fuck off.”

It’s short and not like him, but she deserves it.

She smiles at him, brittle and vicious, and steps back.

“Harley told me what they did, you know. Said she took a crowbar-”

“Go to Hell!”

“-and just. Kept. Swinging.” She taps the pipe on the floor with each word, the hollow _ping!_ echoing in the room. “Said the screaming only stopped when she clocked him in the head.”

He clenches his teeth to keep from provoking her further, but it’s an effort.

“Boys.” The dull ones turn their heads to her, slow and mechanical. “You know what to do.”

“What’re they gonna do, Miss R?”

She rubs the bridge of her nose.

“What does one do with injured birds, James?”

“Uh…”

“You wring their necks.” She turns and walks away. “Come along. D’you want to be here when the Bat shows up to find another dead one?”

THE END


	32. Pet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and idea from the A Perfect Circle song of that name. Contains spoilers for Arkham Knight (like that matters now…) and…sort of…fits in there? I guess? I don’t know, I just had the idea and had to do it, continuities be damned. Because we all love a chance to fuck with Batman’s head. :p

Crane’s not here. Batman didn’t think he would be, but that doesn’t make his mood any better.

Richardson’s here, anyway, and he’ll take that. She’ll tell him what he wants to know, whether she wants to or not. She’s got a hostage, though, so he’ll have to tread carefully. No men, at least, so that’s good.

Is it a trap? Probably. Does he care? No.

He pushes the door open and the breath is promptly knocked out of him.

_Jason?_

No. No, it’s not Jason, not really, but they’ve done their damndest to copy him as he was in that video of Joker’s, ‘J’ and all. The kid’s slumped in the wheelchair, seemingly not noticing or caring that Batman is here and that Richardson’s hand is moving through his hair like she’s petting a cat.

“Back away.”

“No. This one’s mine.” _Did ya get that, Bats? Kid’s not yours anymore. He’s mine…_ “Jonathan made him for me.” She moves her hand to the boy’s shoulder and tugs him against her side in an awkward hug. “Isn’t that right, sweetie?” The boy nods, stilted and mechanical. “Good boy.” She looks up at Batman, goggles unreadably shiny from the florescent lights. “Come any closer, and I’ll break his neck. He’ll let me, you know. Won’t you, sweetie?” Her fingers trace his jaw and guide his head up to look at her.

Another mechanical nod. It makes him sick.

“Where’s Crane.” Keep her talking.

“He couldn’t be here.” she says, hand carding through the boy’s hair again. “Had some work to do…something about meeting up with the Arkham Knight.”

The boy finally sees Batman, and jerks back, chair rattling. Richardson’s hand moves to the back of his neck and she whispers, “Shh, shh. I won’t let him hurt you.”

She _would_ have to pick a windowless room to wait in.

“What do you know about him.”

She says nothing for several seconds, then, “You really don’t know?” A grin spreads over her face, all teeth. “Oh my god…I’d kill to be a fly on that wall…well, I’d kill for less, but you know what I meant.”

“Tell me what you know!”

“Or what? You hurtle over here in time for me to snap this poor child’s neck? Tsk, tsk, Bats, it’s like you _want_ him dead.” He lets himself have a grin of his own, sharp and dangerous. She cocks her head and he can see her fighting the urge to step back-or to run. “Interesting.” The boy looks up at her through wet lashes and Richardson tousles his hair. “You can call him, you know. There’s a computer, just there. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

He doesn’t trust the computer, but he’s not risking anyone else. If there’s anything left of whoever that boy was…

It’s easier, anyhow, to look at the computer rather than the child. Crane’s a stickler for details, and it shows-they’ve even got the…the marks. From the barbed wire Joker had used as a restraint (or worse, who knows what happened). It’d left impressions, small scars, on Jason’s neck (he’d watched that video too many times, desperate for it not to be true). They know him well, don’t they. They know he did.

Crane’s face appears on the screen, impassive as ever.

“Ah. Batman.” He sounds utterly unsurprised. “I thought you might come looking. What do you think? A fairly…accurate…recreation, if I do say so myself.”

“You owe me.” Richardson calls. “He has no idea. I told you so.”

Crane sounds a little annoyed when he says, “Really. I expected…more. Well. It was nice to see you, Batman, but I have work to do. Maybe you’ll be a little more successful with this one, hmm?”

The screen goes black and he turns back. The boy is still slumped in the wheelchair, hands curled in his lap. Richardson rubs his shoulder.

“Y’know, I feel…a little bad for you. World’s Greatest Detective…I’ve said for years that that’s Sherlock Holmes, not you. How does it feel, to fail?”

If he can goad her to step away…just a few feet is all he needs…

“I haven’t failed yet.”

“No?” She cocks her head. “Last I heard, Barbara Gordon was nowhere to be found, dear Jim’s up and vanished, and your other little bird was rotting in his grave. Not a good track record, is it, Robin?”

_Robin?_

The boy shakes his head, lips between his teeth. Batman feels his fingers curl into fists. Damn them both. Just a few feet, is all he needs.

“No, it isn’t.” There’s a gleam of metal-a scalpel-passing from her hand to his before she pats his cheek. “There. That’ll protect you from the big, bad, Bat.”

“Last chance, Richardson.” he warns. “Step away.”

“No.” She’s angry now, a little. “You don’t understand, Batman. You’re not in control here. You’re going to turn around a walk away, or you’re going to be very sorry. Robin?” The boy glances up at her. “Go back to sleep.”

The boy grips the scalpel. Batman is prepared to be attacked, but instead he raises his trembling hand to his own throat, presses the shimmering blade to his skin.

“Enough!”

“Too close to home?” Richardson puts her hand on the boy’s, guiding the scalpel down. “You do realize saving him won’t help, don’t you? There’s nothing left.”

He can’t believe that. He **won’t** believe that.

And this ends now.

He sets his sights on the generator and ignores her, “Or is this an attempt to ease the guilt for the other one, hm? It won’t save him, either.”

He ignores the remnants of old nightmares and the Joker’s laughter and the (accurate, he’s sure) imaginings of Jason’s _no please no_ and turns back to the computer as though to try for Crane again.

“He’s busy, what about that did you not understand?”

Say nothing. Say nothing, just focus. Okay…in…on…generator.

The room plunges into darkness and the boy whimpers. Richardson swears.

“Very funny.”

They’ll see who’s laughing in a second.

He creeps around the side-knock the wheelchair over, hopefully get the boy to drop the scalpel while he deals with Richardson. She’s drawn a gun-bad-but the boy hasn’t moved. Excellent.

The wheelchair hits the ground and he hears the scalpel skitter across the floor. Richardson gets off a shot, but it goes wild and he rips the gun from her hand before slamming her against the nearest wall.

“What do you know about the Arkham Knight?”

She shakes her head-or tries to-and chokes out, “Spoilers.”

Fine. They can talk on the way back to GCPD.

He throws her over his shoulder-give her a chance for that scalpel and things could get ugly-and turns to the boy.

Or, rather, where the boy should be.

He’s gone, swinging door saying he made a run for it, and when Batman switches the cowl on he sees a blue skeleton sprinting down the hall. Richardson just laughs, hands and forehead planted against his back.

“Might want to catch him before he hurts himself.” she says. “Wouldn’t want to add another failure to your list.”

They can talk **at** the GCPD, actually.

He slams her into the floor, knocking her out cold, and dashes out, tackles the boy at the head of the staircase. He **screams** , hoarse cries that barely even sound human, and it’s with only a little regret that Batman gets him in a chokehold. Up close like this, the resemblance to Jason isn’t as strong-Jay has (had) a pencil-thin scar along his hairline ( _“NOW will you stop playing with the gauntlets?” “No.”_ ), but he can see how young the boy really is. Fourteen, fifteen? Maybe?

He picks him up and goes back for Richardson, who’s still sprawled on the floor. When he catches up to Crane-and he **will** catch up to Crane-he’s going to make the man very, very sorry he started this game.

THE END


	33. Jingle Bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your amusement (or, more likely, your confusion), this bad poem. Christmas in July.

Speeding through the streets/fleeing from the Bat/o'er the potholes we go/screaming _whose idea was that!_

Pedestrians all shriek/making Batman mad/oh dear god this is not fun/ _hey, is that a Santa hat?_

Jingle bells/Batman smells/Robin laid an egg/the Batmobile lost a wheel/and the Joker got away!

THE END

* * *

_The Batmobile, sadly, remained intact. We, on the other hand, ended up running over seven pedestrians before some idiot cut us off and spoiled everything. Gave me whiplash. Cretin.-Dr. Crane_


	34. Phone Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Directly related to ‘Caged Bird’. Still feeling evil. YOU CAN’T STOP ME. (Also, I’d be a great assassin, I managed to get literally like three feet away from a rabbit and stay there for five minutes before it saw me and booked it.)

Razor looks at the phone in his hand and shudders. Why. Why him. Why did he have to come out, why does he have to answer the phone, _why is he in Gotham_.

The phone continues to ring, the cheap screen lighting up with the name _Jonathan_ in stark black letters.

Someone kill him now.

“Uh, boss?”

“ _Outside_ , that is _rude_.” Richardson hisses and he’s quick to step away, stammering apologies.

On the other end, Crane is not amused.

“What is going on?”

“Not you, boss-”

Crane cuts him off, voice cold.

“If you value your sanity, you’ll go back over there and put her on the damn phone _now_.”

He does value his sanity, but Crane’s far away and Richardson’s right here. She might…do something to him.

“She’s talkin’ to Nightwing, boss, I swear I don’t wanna-”

“Grammar.” he hisses, and Razor almost wishes he worked for the Joker again. Almost. “And I don’t care if she’s talking to Batman, walk over there-”

“Fuck off!”

“What’s going on.”

Aw, hell. It’s bad enough that Crane’s pissy, now he’s _worried_. Why is this his life.

“Nothing, boss, everything’s under control.”

“Then go over there.” Uh. But. NO. “I don’t hear your footsteps, Mister Razor.”

Please. Please let Batman come. Yeah, he sees the irony there, but he doesn’t even care. If Batman comes, he’ll go to Blackgate and be nice and safe (ish) and on his LIFE he’ll be good from now on, get a job at Gamestop or something.

 ** _“I said, GO OVER THERE.”_** Scarecrow’s rasp is downright demonic over the phone and Razor…well…

He twitches. And accidentally hangs up.

He’s fucked. God no. Please no.

The phone rings again. The standard **rrrrrrriiiiiing!** has never sounded so ominous. Razor will swear that he hears the Funeral March playing in the distance.

The phone is suddenly plucked from his trembling fingers.

“Idiot…hullo-Jonathan, really, you’re being a little dramatic.”

He debates, a bit, on staying behind and begging Batman to arrest him, but…Nightwing. He doesn’t wanna stick around for the aftermath of that.

Maybe he can get pulled over for speeding.

THE END


	35. Batman: Species Dateus Interruptus

_Ding!_

Ahh. The soothing sound of wine glasses ever so gently touching. It brings with it the sense of accomplishment and the promise of an enjoyable evening.

This is the first dinner they’ve had out in…months. It’s not like they can go out that often. Even this is a risk, but so far they haven’t been recognized and it’s been too long since they’ve had a _nice night out_. They’re considering going for a walk later, maybe dropping by the late-night theatre by the lair.

“What are you getting?”

“I’m debating between the alfredo and the ravioli. You?”

“Lasagna or the penne alla vodka.”

“Get the penne.”

“You just want to steal from me.” he accuses, and she throws him an affronted look.

“I would never! Besides, we both know what befell my poor fried rice.”

He takes a sip of wine rather than answer her and glances at the dessert section. For later, of course.

It’s comfortably warm inside, it’s not crowded, and the radio isn’t blaring.

Of course it can’t last.

**CRA-ASH!**

The shattering window is maybe ten feet away. The cause is the Joker.

Oh, no.

The purple stain staggers to his feet, cackling through what Jonathan is gratified to see is a broken jaw. The gratification turns to exasperation when the Batman swings through what’s left of the glass and knocks him back to the carpet.

“Maybe he hasn’t seen us.”

It’s a futile hope. Three screaming patrons, one cloud of fear gas, and several bruises later, all three of them are in the back of the Batmobile, cuffed and sore. The Joker, at least, is unable to speak.

“It’s your fault we’re so thin, you know.” Kitty informs him. “You should feel terrible.”

**“Hn.”**

“We weren’t even doing anything.”

Silence from the front seat. The Joker giggles. Jonathan wonders if there’s a way to murder him. If he gets his cuffs…no, Batman will just resuscitate him.

This is incredibly unfair.

“Why couldn’t you have caused trouble elsewhere? Like across town?”

The clown merely grins at him-oh, good, a chipped tooth-and they both huff. Kitty leans her head on his shoulder and glares at the back of the driver’s seat. Tragically, said seat does not burst into flames.

One day. One day, they’ll have a night out in relative peace.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> AN: What? I had to let them win at least ONCE. I feel guilty on Scarecrow boss battles, for crying out loud! This all takes place at the same time as 'Phobias', but if I combined them it'd be huge.


End file.
